


Raw Bone Whisper

by FadedSepia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Biting, Borrowed Comic Clint's Cannon Height, F/M, Rought Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-23 20:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: It’s purely pragmatic; she finally has a choice, and Clint Barton is that choice. Definitely not the best choice, probably not even a good choice. He’s her choice… but Clint Barton is not ideal; not at all. They work together… Not that she cares. Still, the thought slips through her brain as she really keys in; her partner is railing her into the wall of a bathroom in the middle of Rotterdam.





	Raw Bone Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> This story wouldn’t have been possible without the encouragement and support of the following wonderful encouragement screamers: [reystarkrogers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reystarkrogers), [spaceluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceluna/pseuds/spaceluna), and [bloodmooninspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodMooninSpace). Extra special thanks to Anna for helping me iron out this story in four days, and hugs to all three of you for not letting me bury this under a rock.
> 
> This is the first fic I’ve written – _ever_ – rated _explicit_ ; gentle feedback would be greatly appreciated.

The first time Natasha fucks him, it’s not for any romantic reasons. It’s purely pragmatic; she finally has a choice, and Clint Barton is that choice. Definitely not the best choice, probably not even a good choice. But, nonetheless, he’s her choice; that’s what she thinks as she grabs his wrist and tugs him through the open doorway, out of the alleyway and onto the main street.

They don’t even wind up anywhere with a bed. Certainly not one of the places she might have gone when she did this for work.

Instead, she drags them past a flickering puddle of neon light, down a half-flight of stairs, into the basement club and through its crush of bodies and over-compressed bass. The men’s bathroom smells like cheap cologne and old cigarettes, and someone is vomiting in the stall on the end.

But Clint is solidly pressed into her, warm calloused hands cupping her ass as he rucks up her skirt and pins her against the cracked wall tiles.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she crosses her ankles behind his back, levering herself against the wall so he can work his fly open and push his pants down. Clint fists her panties, yanking them to the side. She can hear the silk tear, briefly mourns that pair; it matched her bra.

Then both his hands are holding her, tipping her hips and forcing her to arch into him, leaving only her shoulders on wall as he thrusts into her. Natasha sucks her breath through clenched teeth, savouring the filling slide. He bottoms out inside of her, still for a moment before she squeezes her thighs and he starts moving.

Natasha has to rock forward to reach him, dropping more of her weight onto his hands so she can twine her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her mouth. He presses her back, the cold of the tile against her ass a sharp counterpoint to the hot girth in her cunt.

Clint kisses like he brawls, close and hard, his height forcing her to tip her head back. He hasn’t shaved since they started this op, hasn’t showered since the day before; his mouth tastes like stale coffee and copper, and dried blood flakes off onto her fingers as they slide though his hair.

Head tilting into her hand, Clint pulls his mouth away. His eyes are half lidded and hazy, split lip seeping after the frenzied kiss.

He isn’t a bad choice, but Clint Barton is not ideal; not at all. They work together, and he’s married, for fuck’s sake, at least until the paperwork goes through. Not that that matters. Not that she cares. Still, the thought slips through her brain as she really keys in; her partner is railing her into the wall of a bathroom in the middle of Rotterdam.

It’s in that moment that they both realize she’s staring.

He slows the roll of his hips, nearly stopping before he suddenly thrusts, knocking her hard up into the wall, edging the line of acceptable pain.

Natasha’s eyes screw shut, her breath shallow through her mouth. She can feel his laugh against her chest, forces herself to open her eyes and look back at him.

With a grin, he pulls his hips back until she’s almost empty before snapping back into her, punching the air out of her in a sharp gasp. She tightens her hands on his shoulders, squirming against the stinging spike of pleasure.

Clint curls down, sweat-soaked bangs pressing to her forehead, gaze locked on hers. He winks, head tilting down for a biting kiss, before dragging his mouth to nip along her jaw. He pulls back and thrusts sharply forward, again. And again.

Natasha arches in against him, legs hitching higher around his body, bracing under each satisfying slam. There’s a blissful warmth spreading up along her spine, the staccato friction hitching her breath.

Still, it’s a short while before she can feel Clint’s rhythm start to falter. Natasha locks her legs behind his back, thighs pressing above his hips, stilling him within her. He tries to move, grinding more than anything. “Don’t.” She clenches her hand against the back of his neck, tugging his short hair until Clint lifts his eyes. “I’m not finished.”

He groans and bites back a curse, one hand slipping between them, holding her upright with the other. Natasha relaxes her legs as he pulls out, freed hand yanking off the ruined remnants of her panties, tossing them haphazardly aside. His fingers replace his cock inside her, thumb dragging over her clit with each press.

Natasha hangs in his grip a moment, just letting him please her, before tipping his face back to her own. She catches his lip in her teeth, muffling a needy squeak against his mouth.

The bathroom door swings inward, spilling a rush of dubstep and low voices in around them. Their door rattles. The one on the next stall slams shut. Natasha’s never had an audience; it’s rather more of a turn-on than she expected.

She clenches around Clint’s calloused fingers, soft moan swallowed up into his mouth. Natasha clutches at his face, tongue tracing his teeth before she pushes him away. “Now.” She doesn’t recognize the breathy voice rasping a whisper out of her own throat.

Her partner drags his fingers out interminably slowly, making her wait. She bucks against his grip and groans; he barks out something half chuckle and half grunt as he pulls her close and fucks back up into her.

There’s no finesse from either of them now, both edging towards completion, rutting together, frenetic and needy. It’s overwhelming: the steady girth splitting her, the panting breath on her neck, the solid knock of the tile against her back, the risk of being found out and interrupted. It’s thrillingly perfect.

Clint mouths down her neck, until his teeth are at her throat. It should feel threatening, he’s biting her hard enough to bruise, but it’s that last little push she needs.

Natasha knows how to be controlled; she could ride out her orgasm with barely more than a twitch if she had to. She doesn’t. Instead, she claws her hands into his scalp and shoulder, back arching, groaning Clint’s name into his hair. Her world spirals down to the clench of her sex, the slide of his teeth on her throat, and the rising pitch of her choked-out moans, echoing and audible above the blast of the music.

Maybe she wants someone to hear. Maybe she needs to hear it for herself.

Either way, Clint’s tightening his hands on her hips, pressing new bruises over fresh ones as he chases his own pleasure. Natasha is half crushed between him and the wall, thighs aching as he slams up against her.

Clint moans as he comes within her, spilling a hot rush tingling up her spine, thrusting a few times more. She can feel the pull on her skin from his teeth when he lets go, back bowed deeply, head tucked up under her chin, breath gasping against her chest.

There’s a tremor in his legs, a trembling that spreads up, that she can feel against her thighs, beneath her hands as it moves along his shoulders and down his arms. Clint heaves her away from the wall, turning quickly to drop to seated on the toilet, still hard within her.

Natasha lets herself lean into him, her eyes slipping shut, legs still dangling where she straddles him, listening as his breath evens out in time with hers. Her limbs are heavy and boneless; there’s a buzzing prickle in the tips of her fingers and behind her eyes. She feels like she might float away if Clint wasn’t holding her. It’s strange, not having to get up, move, murder through the afterglow. It’s nice.

She can feel him softening. She could do something about it, but there’s no need.

Clint moans, almost whimpering as he slips out of her, but he doesn’t move otherwise. “Good?” he mumbles against the top of her head.

“Fishing for a compliment?”

He squeezes her closer with an amused sigh. “Satisfied, then? Because my legs will need a minute if you’re not.”

“Yes.” She is, more than she has any right to be in the graffiti scribbled stall. Natasha nips at his throat, feeling a euphoric little giggle pushing up out of her chest. “Good.”

She toys idly with the collar of his shirt, petting at him. “I could do the work next time.” There will be a next time, she knows it; it’s just a matter of when.

“I might let you, but I’m not sure I want you to pin me.” Clint shrugs and sofly chuckles.

“I’ve done it before.”

He snorts, chin rubbing through her hair as he shakes his head. “Not when my dick’s inside you.”

Natasha hums in agreement. It was a half-decent decision, perhaps, if he’s willing to joke with her. Half decent, but now she’s hurting. Her thighs are sore, her lower back smarting, and sitting on Clint like this won’t address either ache. “Help me up?”

“You can do it yourself, or you can wait.”

She doesn’t think her legs would obey her right now, even if she could manage to get out of his lap. Still, Natasha shakily leans back, keeping her hands on his shoulders as she eyes him.

Clint doesn’t look good exactly; if anything, with the residual smear of her lipstick around his mouth, and a mottled blush high on his cheeks, he looks worse. Natasha doesn’t want to think about what she looks like.

He glances down past her eyes, grinning, telegraphing blatantly exactly what he’s about to do. She flashes teeth up at him, in what could only charitably be called a smirk, and decides to beat Clint to it. The kiss is only soft because they’re tired, because Natasha still has some stubble burn on her lips, because the door to the bathroom has just banged open, again, pouring more people in here with them.

Clint keeps his lips on hers as he stands, lifting her up with him before setting her on the floor.

Natasha braces herself up on the door, knees shaky under her own weight, watching him as she tries to find her balance.

Her partner is leaning into the side of the stall as he tucks himself back into his pants. Clint catches her gaze and winks, self-satisfied and mocking. With his own clothes in order, he leans in to smooth her skirt back into place, grabs some toilet paper so he can wipe off the makeup that’s rearranged itself around her mouth and cheeks. His hands are still trembling.

She returns the favour, then takes his arm as he unlocks the stall door. It’s easy to ignore the aborted stares and quirked brows in the men’s room; harder to ignore the wad of what were once her panties on the floor. Natasha doesn’t stop to pick them up.

From the corner of her eye, she catches her reflection in the mirror; hair a scarlet riot, pupils blown, the purple marks of teeth tracing a line down her neck to disappear under her collar. For once, Clint looks better than she does. Only the subtlest of hints betray their tryst. There are the nail scratches and the vague handprint against his neck, the bitten lips and splotchy blush. His hair is always a mess anyway. His shirt hides the damp spot fronting his trousers.

She gets her footing as they push out through the swinging door, letting go of Clint as soon as they step back onto the dance floor. They weave through the crush of bodies writhing in the pounding music and step out onto the sidewalk. Her thighs are sticky, cool beneath her skirt without him between them.

Natasha threads her fingers through his, head resting against the outside of his arm. He’s too tall, too heavily muscled for it to be very comfortable, really. Clint seems to agree, letting go to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close as they stumble back to their hotel.

She glances over her shoulder to where the neon light spills out and puddles on the sidewalk. Then she cuddles in closer, arm slipping around Clint’s waist as they go. It might not have been the best decision, but Natasha is certain it was the right one.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from _She’s Not Gone Yet, But She’s Leaving_ by The Fratellis. The story clearly doesn’t align with the song, but it somehow reminds me of Natasha and Clint, and was playing on a loop in my car as I slammed this out on my phone.
> 
> I have thoughts on this story; I’ll be happy to chat about them in the notes.
> 
> [Hit me up on tumblr (at)fadedsepiascribbles](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com/)


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